


Alive and Well

by kylobabble



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28444233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylobabble/pseuds/kylobabble
Summary: It wasn’t that she was particularly happy living in her endless rotation of drunken nights and bad fucks, but she wasn’t suicidal either. She wasn’t contemplating turning that horrible power on herself, and that was as much as she could ask for.But now she’s stuck in the Illyrian mountains with no one but Cassian for company. No alcohol to ease her nerves, no fae males to keep her company, and without her vices, Nesta is drowning.
Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	Alive and Well

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is all about healing and growth. The first chapter is rough but it will get better in the next few chapters.

Nesta likes orgasms. 

They were the only thing that made her feel anything. The short burst of pleasure that ran through her body when she reached her climax was one of the reasons she was still alive –keeping herself breathing if only for the promise of more, more, more–even if that small happiness was so short lived it was almost not worth the effort. 

She used her hand at first–when she moved out of the townhouse, and into her slummy apartment, she took time to herself, countless locks clicked in place keeping her safe from the world outside her door. She stayed curled up in her bed, flowing in and out of sleep, time only marked by the amount of orgasms she managed to give herself. 

Her safety had been ripped away from her countless times now, and while the locks would do anything against a fae warrior, they did calm a small but persistent voice in her head. A voice that was constantly on edge, screaming for safety and comfort. The first time Nesta had been ripped from her home was when their father had lost his fortune. She remembered their old manor so keenly, even now. The lush gardens and warm library. It was the first of many homes that had slipped through Nesta’s fingers. After the manor came the cabin, which had been invaded twice. First by the debt collectors who had smashed her father’s legs, then by Tamlin, who wrenched their home from them so completely and placed them somewhere new, somewhere suitable. The debt collectors had frightened a teenage Nesta. Her mother had told her all about men like that, men who did and took as they pleased. Nesta had hidden with Elain while they beat their father, the sounds of her father's howls and Feyre’s sobs echoing from the next room. Elain was oddly silent, as if she didn’t understand–or perhaps she was just too terrified to cry.

When Tamlin had broken down their door and demanded his vengeance, every bit of safety she’d managed to regain since the debt collectors had been torn away–ripped to shreds by those giant claws protruding from the beasts paws. She had tried to think of a way to get Elain out, to defend themselves, but her mind had gone blank and then Feyre was gone. And she was left with a terrifying memory that no one else shared,and Nesta felt truly alone for the first time in her life.

It was never Feyre’s responsibility to protect them, Nesta supposed. Even so, she couldn’t help the absolute hatred she had felt for her sister when–despite the High Lord of Night’s promise of protection–Elain and Nesta were hauled from their beds and whisked away to be used for some fae king’s benefit. This time, when their house was intruded and their lives upended, Nesta did not bother with fear. She was just angry. So angry that she was full of it–she gorged upon her anger and was fueled by it. Angry at Feyre, angry and Rhysand, angry at the king of Hybern. 

Nesta was so angry that when they lowered her into the belly of god, she didn’t bother screaming, she didn’t cower. She lunged into that darkness and clawed out a piece of its power for herself.

When she decided to move out of the townhouse and get an apartment for herself, she had hoped that it would be the last home she ever had. She had hoped that she would feel safe. She wanted to feel at home in Velaris. And she did, but perhaps not in the way she had intended. 

Nesta had made a home out of Velaris, but she hadn’t done it in a way that was acceptable to her sister. So now Nesta has been ripped from her home once more, and sent off to become something she doesn’t want to be.

A warrior? A weapon? Nesta wanted to be a homemaker. Even if the home was small and grubby and in a poorer part of town. It would have been hers, if Feyre hadn’t been the one paying for it.

Nesta would not be making any homes now. Nesta would not be left to grind out her own comfort and safety any longer. She’d been placed–like a child–into the rough, battle worn hands of her least favorite Illyrian warrior.

There would be no home for her. No safety. All Cassian could give her was petty conflict and dirty gripes. 

The worst part was that she didn’t even feel angry as Feyre ripped her newfound home away from her. Nesta felt nothing at all.

~

She made the decision to have sex not too long after she moved out. She didn’t like the idea of men touching her, being inside her, but so long as it ended with those few seconds of pure pleasure, Nesta decided she would withstand it. 

She found that it was difficult to achieve orgasm during sex. The fae males she laid with– that unnatural beauty paired with terrible, immortal souls– were not as good in bed as one would hope. 

It took some focus on her part. In the beginning she had to pretend that none of it was real. She imagined that she wasn’t in her body, that she was watching from afar. She dreamt that someone else was pulling strings and moving her like a puppet - arching her spine, throwing back her head, grinding her hips. She was safe, no one was touching her, sometimes she even let herself believe that she was human.

Nesta had always suffered from nightmares, but they changed significantly after her sexual awakening. Something poisoning them, making them newly horrible. No longer was she drowning in the cauldron, or watching Elain’s mortal soul ripped from her body. Now her terrors were more venomous, shocking. Sometimes, in her terrors, the king of Hybern is the one pulling the strings. She watches as the man who made her into this creature - who murdered her father - uses her body to give a fae male pleasure. Now, though, it is not uncommon to find the king of hybern under her, Nesta a puppet moving and moaning at the puppetmaster’s leisure. Sometimes it’s Cassian, but for some reason those are always the worst. To see something she knows she wants, poisoned by her own mind. 

In those dreams Rhysand is the one pulling the strings. Sometimes Feyre helps.

The alcohol helped settle the fear that pulsed through her veins when these strangers touched her. Oh, how wonderful these fae wines were. She isn’t sure which she needed more, the alcohol or the sex. Either way, it was endless fun.

Nesta found that when she got absolutely shitfaced, the sex –while still terrible– was bearable. The harsh liquors drunken by the fae made her feel free. A strange male could touch her and instead of having to push her anxiety down down down, she could lean into his touch with ease. 

Drinking made everything smooth, it made the thoughts pass through her head easier. She didn’t have to think about the war with Hybern, the death of her father, or the cauldron. She could be the lovely lady she was raised to be, a woman her mother might be proud of - if not for the drinking and the fucking. Her mother taught her how to be pleasant and kind, how to be beautiful and alluring, how to get the attention of a lord’s son. Nesta had never been quite good at it, she had the grace, but she was always too harsh, tongue too sharp. But when she was drunk it was easy to be that girl, the one that might have been some lord’s wife. She could flirt and charm any man into her bed, all she had to do was smile–perhaps bat her eyelashes–and try not to say every terrible thing that came to her head.

The alcohol also helped her forget, one night at a time. It was easier to face this eternal existence laid out before her if she didn’t have to remember every single night she had lived through. If she could drink all of her nights away, then immortality might be easier than she anticipated.

Sometimes, when she wakes up horribly hungover and terribly sober, a strange fae male in her bed, she remembers. She remembers her fragile mortal soul, and her beautiful human body. Her mortal self would never let a man touch her, let alone the filth Nesta lays with now. She thinks about the woman she used to be, the woman who died when Hybern snapped her father's neck. The woman who died inside that cauldron. The woman who had wasted her last breaths on hatred and anger and revenge. The woman who stole from the cauldron. 

Nesta can hardly look in a mirror without shrinking back in disgust. Her fae body is fine–albeit dangerously thin–to those who she lays with, but to Nesta her body is nothing but some terrible nightmare come to life. She spent her entire life being told horrible tales about the fae, what they would do to pretty human girls like her. And now she was the monstrous fae. She was the thing that made human children shiver with fear.

She was the horror now. She was the thing she always feared. How the hell is she supposed to get over that? How has _Feyre_ managed to cope with that?

If the thing Nesta was today was forced to face the caudron, she was sure she would let that endless dark drown her. 

She supposes the cauldron took her maidenhead in earnest, that thing she had held so close and fought to keep near. Thomas had tried to take it, and Cassian ached with want over it, but she had held it tight and never gave it up. 

She doesn’t remember the name of the male that took it. 

She does remember how it felt when that king had her thrown in that cauldron and that eternal dark swallowed her, pulled her deep into the endless depth. Her virtue seemed so trite to her after that. Once she emerged from that cauldron–in all her terrible, immortal glory–her maidenhead was about as useful as her father’s wood carvings had been in that cabin. 

Who would want the virginity of a monster anyway. Anyone who could see what leaked beneath her skin wouldn’t - shouldn’t - want her anyway. 

Her human body had been taken from her, violated, changed, remade. It was no longer the sacred thing she once believed it had been. What did it matter if she fucked the scummiest men in Velaris? She was worthless anyway, the sooner Cassian and her sisters and their family realized that, the better.

So, Nesta got drunk and fucked strangers and stopped speaking to her family, because she didn’t want to be alone, she just didn’t want to be around _them_. More importantly–and maybe she's selfish for wanting this, she doesn’t really know–she doesn’t want to be around people who hate her.

Nesta hates herself enough, she doesn’t need some five-hundred odd year old fae to point out all of her faults and mistakes. Nesta has been well aware of everything she’s done. Maybe at one point she’d been ready to admit, to apologize. But not anymore. 

There is no doubt in Nesta’s mind. If she looked back at her past, she would become lost in an agony so deep it could only end in her death. Better to look ahead. To the next bottle. To the next male. To the next orgasm.

The court of dreams had seen her on that battlefield, in the human lands. They had seen what she’d done, the monstrous power that had come from her hands. She couldn’t hide what she was from them, but the males whom she took home every night–while they perhaps had an idea of the terror that lurked beneath her skin–did not know the extent of the horror she could produce. 

She could be charming–kind,even–around them, and they were none the wiser. It was easier that way.

It wasn’t that she was particularly happy living in her endless rotation of drunken nights and bad fucks, but she wasn’t suicidal either. She wasn’t contemplating turning that horrible power on herself, and that was as much as she could ask for.

But now she’s stuck in the Illyrian mountains with no one but Cassian for company. No alcohol to ease her nerves, no fae males to keep her company, and without her vices Nesta is drowning. 

She uses her hand, when she’s sure that Cassian is far from the cabin. But she misses it, the warm body underneath hers and the burn of the alcohol in her veins. And, oh, how she missed those seconds of pleasure found occasionally, if the male didn’t take his pleasure before she could reach her’s first. 

How selfish her partners had been.

The weather found in the mountains of the night court was harsh, and for the first few weeks Nesta refused to light a fire in her room. There was scarcely a moment when Nesta wasn’t shivering and when she’d tried to ask Cassian for extra blankets he’d asked her why she wouldn’t light the fireplace in her room.

She hadn’t been able to answer him, feeling so ashamed of her weakness. And she’d felt so silly afterward too. She was living here with him for free and he was asking nothing of her. What had she done to deserve an extra blanket?

She never let any of this show, of course. Only kept that indifferent facade plastered on her face, refusing to let her feelings show.

She had considered that maybe–when she was particularly horny one evening, and Cassian hadn’t returned yet–Cassian would be willing to help her reach orgasm.

The way he’d looked at her, before his nose skimmed her neck, his lips caressing her pulse point gently, his tongue–

But she’d been human when he’d done that, and now a monster creeps beneath her skin, something barely under her control. He’d seen it on that battlefield, and perhaps he’d made promises about _time_ , but they hadn’t done anything with that time, had they? 

It doesn’t help that she’s skinnier now than she had been in that cabin below the wall. Even though she had put on some weight since coming to the mountains, her bones still protruded from her body, and her breasts hung awkwardly off of her frail frame. 

She was an ugly little creature, and letting those strangers see it hadn’t felt all that terrifying–her body was worthless anyway–but the idea of Cassian looking upon her pale figure sent a jolt of fear up her spine. If his burning Hazel eyes–ones that had always seemed to see her soul lurking under skin–saw her body in this state, Nesta might have to actually destroy herself rather than face his disgust.

So, Nesta forges on without sex and alcohol, and during the worst moments of her training she remembers what it had felt like to be that human woman. That unbreakable pillar of steel might not have wanted to become a warrior–she still didn’t, actually–but she certainly wouldn’t let these bat brained fae break her.

She’d been training with Cassian for the past few weeks. He woke her up every day before dawn broke and made her train until the sun was in the middle of the sky. Nesta knew that he was wasting his time training her–he had a job here in the mountains, issues much more pressing that Nesta’s core strength. She even pointed this out to him, but he wouldn’t hear any of it, and she supposed it made sense. Nesta wouldn’t be able to hold herself up in the sparring ring for some time, and the illyrian females barely got to train in the first place.

This was the best course of action for now, she could start training with the other females when she didn’t look like a skeleton.

Nesta had never wanted to become a warrior, never bothered with any notions of overcoming the patriarchal values held below the wall. Not like Feyre, who went out and hunted, and laid with men out of wedlock. Feyre had always been far more challenging then Nesta had. Nesta couldn’t even claim that she enjoyed the exercise, or that she would become a great warrior just to spite the high lord and lady.

No, she trained because she had nothing better to do, and the Illyrians scared her far more than she was willing to admit. The fae she laid with in Velaris were far more mortal looking than the Illyrians. With their large leathery wings, there was no mistaking them for anything human, and Nesta could barely stand to look at her own fae form in the mirror, let alone lay with an unmistakably fae warrior. 

She knew that the humans had been wrong about the fae, in some capacity. It wasn’t like their fear of the fae was unfounded. Her mortal people had been enslaved for thousands of years, wounds like that could not just be expected to heal. But even now that she was fae, the hatred that she had held toward did not simply go away. She was a terrible monster now, just as bad as the rest of them. Nesta wasn’t like Feyre or Rhysand, with superiority complexes so immense they thought each of them deserved to be worshipped. 

Nesta understood that this thing, this power, was not a gift, or something to be harnessed. It was a fucking curse, and it would do nothing but hurt innocent people should she touch it. 

She scares herself, the same way the Illyrians scare her. The same way all fae have always scared her. She remembers the fear that had coursed through her body when she first laid eyes on those Illyrian males, though she tried not to let it show. Cassian had caught her eye, even then–though the wings gave her pause. She had always found him beautiful, and manly in a way that was almost cliche. The large muscles and inane height, spattering of scars and swirls of tattoos. He looked like a _warrior_. He looked like the kind of man Nesta would have steered clear of before, the cocky smirk that played on his mouth, and his nose which looked like it had been broken at least three times. His eyes were the thing that really drew her in, though. They were a deep hazel and they were soft, so different from the rest of him. There was something in them, something he kept hidden. A gentle soul - one Nesta wanted wrapped around her, holding her close until their world was nothing but ash.

And Cassian had seen something in her, too. All of her faults were exposed to him with a simple glance, and he wasn’t shy about making sure she knew all of her shortcomings. 

He was so beautiful and so unnatural, so incredibly fae that he petrified her. And yet, she wanted him, wanted to know what he’d done for the past five hundred years and what he would do for the next five hundred. But he would never have her, not in the way that Nesta had wanted at the time. He was disgusted by her, a scrawny little human who let her youngest sister hunt alone in the woods. His attraction to her ever since was tainted by this disgust, and embarrassment. Nesta could see it, how he hated himself for feeling so strongly for her, how he shrugged her off whenever a more worthy female– _Morrigan_ –was around.

When Cassian storms into the cabin he lets a burst of cold air follow him in, sending a shiver down Nesta’s spine. She had been staring at the fire, forcing herself to look at it, and listen to it - an attempt to slowly acclimate herself to the flames as she had done with the bath. 

If Cassian finds her behavior odd he doesn’t mention it, and Nesta is thankful. 

Cassian simply closes the door behind him, striding into the kitchen, his long gait relaxed. _So today was a good day._ Nesta could tell, in the month she had been here she’d had nothing to do but study Cassian carefully, something she had plenty of practice doing. More often than not, Cassian would come home with tense muscles, his steps halted and brutal, wings tucked tightly against his body. But today he’s calm, happy even. 

Nesta tried to stop herself, she really did. She tried to calm herself, told herself it was nothing, but something inside her won. It always won.

Nesta peeled herself off the sofa she had been curled in before walking toward the door and careful turning every lock, testing them afterward.

Cassian watched her do it, observing silently–as she often found herself observing him.

She’s already settled herself back in front of the fire, eyes burning from the heat and smoke yet she continues to stare. She would not be scared by a simple flame.

“You start training with the rest of the females tomorrow.” Cassian breaks the silence. He’s leaning again the kitchen counter, watching Nesta stare unmoving at the flames before her.

Nesta doesn’t bother responding, she just looks into the flames and tries to keep her fear at bay. 

She’s not sure if she should rejoice at the feeling. It’s been so long since she’s felt anything except annoyance. But since what she feels now is terror, she decides it’s not exactly something to celebrate.

Nesta stares into the fire.

~

And so the next day, Nesta is in the training ring, eyes of the Illyrian females glued to her as she takes Devlon's fists.

The warlord did not enjoy the idea of training a high fae very well. Cassian had abandoned her after just a few minutes. As soon as he had left Devlon had pinned her with his eyes and she knew she was in for a beating.

She feels dark bruises begin to form on her skin. She feels every fist she takes–he is particularly harsh on her ribcage. 

And when she lands on her back after a particularly brutal punch from Devlon, she thinks of that fragile human girl hiding behind a mask of steel, and when she pulls herself out of the mud and back into a fighting stance, it’s for her.


End file.
